Page 59 of Her Manticore Master
He grabs my hand, his calloused fingers wrapping around mine. His touch is rough, impersonal, yet it sends an unwanted jolt of heat straight through me. He adjusts my fingers, tucking my thumb into the correct position.
“Like this. A straight line from your knuckle to your elbow. You hit with a bent wrist, you’ll break your own hand before you ever hurt your opponent.” His thumb brushes against my palm, and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to that single point of contact.
The days that follow are a blur of relentless, agonizing work. Every morning begins with the same brutal routine, every evening ends with me collapsing onto the cot, every muscle screaming. Ronan is a merciless teacher, his critiques as sharp as any blade.
“Too slow.”
“You’re telegraphing your intentions.”
“A dead woman could block that.”
I loathe him and wish him dead, but I don't give up. Gradually, my movements improve, becoming smoother and more controlled. My body, once soft, begins to harden.
“Again,”he commands one afternoon, circling me in the center of the cell.
“I’m tired,” I snap, sweat dripping into my eyes.
“Death doesn’t care if you’re tired,” he retorts. “He’s coming for you. Left jab.”
I land a practiced punch, which he blocks. My follow-through right cross connects with his shoulder. He grunts, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
“Sloppy,” he says, but with a new note of approval. This backhanded compliment gives me a sense of power and agency.
Our shared glances now hold something hotter than hatred, a dangerous intimacy. He sees me as an apprentice, and I see him as my forge. The anger between us transforms into the friction of sharpening whetstones; every bruise and glance a silent acknowledgment of our violent bond.
Just as confidence flickers, he reminds me of the chasm between us. During sparring, I duck a swing and land a solid hit to his ribs. A triumphant grin spreads across my face.
“Not bad,” he grunts, and I momentarily see pride in his eyes. Then his expression hardens. He moves with impossible speed,grabbing my tunic and slamming me against the stone wall, knocking the wind from me. He holds me, his overwhelming strength absolute.
“Don’t ever get cocky,” he growls. “The moment you think you’re good is the moment you die. That pride on your face? That’s a liability. It makes you predictable.”
“I…” I gasp, struggling for breath.
“You did well,” he says, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. “So I had to remind you that ‘well’ isn’t good enough. In the arena, there is no room for pride. There is only survival.”
He releases me, and I slide to the floor, my body a symphony of aches. The brief moment of triumph is gone, replaced by the familiar sting of humiliation. It’s infuriating, this cycle he puts me through. He builds me up only to tear me down, dangles hope just to snatch it away.
“I hate you,” I whisper, the words a familiar refrain.
“Good,” he says, turning back to his own solitary training. “Hate keeps you sharp. Now get up. We’re not done.”
I push myself to my feet, every muscle protesting. My head throbs, my pride is in tatters, but I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. I will get up, and I will keep fighting. Not just because he commands it, but because for the first time in my life, I am fighting for myself.
25
RONAN
The days bleed into a monotonous cycle of pain and repetition. The cell, once a symbol of my imprisonment, has become our training ground, our forge. Every morning, I wake her before dawn. Every day, I push her until she’s on the verge of collapse. And every day, she gets back up and glares at me with those defiant green eyes, ready for more.
“Keep your guard up!” I bark, circling her. “You’re leaving your whole left side open. Do you want to die?”
“Only if it means I don’t have to listen to your voice anymore,” she pants, sweat plastering her dark hair to her temples. She attempts a jab, but it’s clumsy, off-balance.
I slap it aside with contemptuous ease. “Pathetic. Your footwork is a disgrace. Are you trying to fight or trip over your own feet?”
“Maybe if you didn’t smell like a wet dog, I could concentrate,” she snaps back, but she corrects her stance, planting her feet wider as I’d shown her.
She's infuriating: argumentative, questioning, and creatively curses me. Yet, she doesn't cry or complain about her pain. Shecurses, then tries to obey. I see a warrior emerging, but I crush my pride. She's a liability; forgetting that could be fatal.
